As I've wandered from one year to the next, I've come across a wide range of people who seemed to be traveling in the same general direction. As I think about it, I guess that makes sense since we're all working our way toward the same destination. While working as a DNR officer, I liked talking to the somewhat timeworn individuals I'd come across. They just looked bored, seeming to me that maybe they'd just run out of people to listen to them.
They always acted suspiciously surprised when I'd strike up a conversation, sort of like I might be trying to catch them on the wrong side of the law -- as unlikely as that would have been. I could always glean some valuable tidbits and I especially liked hearing words I'd thought belonged exclusively to Bogart and Cagney. "Cooking with gas; Take a powder; dish; Cut a rug; Moxie; Rhubarb; Gat; Schnook, Booshwash; Dough; Dog soup" - it was quite an English lesson.
Introductions. Mr. Cosgrove was one of those old guys. I first met him when he was trailer camping at Ohio's Beaver Creek State Park. I was working my way through college as a seasonal ranger and was doing my best "friendly ranger" walk through the campground, welcoming folks that were rolling into their sites and making sure they were properly registered. I found Mr. Cosgrove sitting in one of three old lawn chairs, the nylon webbing showing the ragged strain from many seasons of use. He was poking at a campfire with a section of an ancient aluminum clothesline prop. He seemed to be lost in thought. His wife, dressed in a colorful house dress and wearing an apron, poked her head out of the camper and announced, "You got company, so wake up!" as she gave me a smile and a wave.
As I approached, he slowly rose on shaky legs while he grabbed his cane. I tried to wave him down, but he caught my hand in mid-direction and shook it. "No need to stand," I said.
"Respect for the uniform...respect for the man might come later," he replied with a smile and a wink from his watery-blue eyes. He motioned to an empty chair. At first, I ignored his offer until I realized that he wasn't going to sit unless I did. I examined the worn webbing and determined that it was probably safe... maybe. As I gingerly settled in, I saw his brief look of relief as he gently eased himself back into his own seat, one leg stiffly held toward the front.
I've always been able to learn a lot from folks by carefully trading a little information about myself. Mr. Cosgrove told me that he and his wife drove up from their home in Florida. He'd hoped the Sunshine State's warm weather would offer some relief from the cold that made his joints ache, thanks to his "lucky limp." Showing interest, I asked if he was a native Floridian. That's when his story unfolded.
Born in the 19th century along the Ohio River, he became a cop in Wellsville during the Roaring 20s. He worked through the Great Depression and Prohibition -- rough times in a rough town with rough people preying on banks and smuggling liquor. He remembered how he was working the day that the infamous hoodlum Pretty Boy Floyd "earned his Chicago Overcoat" when he was gunned down by the FBI in Conkles' Hollow, on the edge of the very park where we were sitting.
He patted his leg, which didn't bend at the knee. "I liked being a policeman, felt I was doing something decent. I'd graduated to motorcycle patrol and looked pretty spiffy in those tall boots and jodhpurs. I was pulling into the station's parking lot when another cop backed out of his spot and cracked my bike. I went down hard. Ended up disabled from a crushed knee." Just that memory brought a wincing squint.
That explained the stiff leg, the cane and the move south. It didn't explain why he would call that injury his "lucky limp," unless he was being sarcastic. "Maybe you should call it you're not-so-lucky limp," I said with a bit of a smile.
Mr. Cosgrove explained that the accident cost him his job, slowed him down and forced him to take another look at his life. He loved being a cop, making a difference. When that abruptly ended, and after he was done feeling sorry for himself and stopped "mashing the giggle juice," he realized that he'd forgotten the importance of the rest of his life -- and how much he'd been missing. That's when he began spending more time with his son, took up camping, and when he learned to love fishing for bream -- pronounced "brim."
I confessed that I had no idea what a bream was and he volunteered to show me. There was one problem, he needed a wheelman, making me feel like I'd been invited to a heist. That led to our first outing along a private pond I knew about. He assured me that we'd find bream there. I was young and still learning a lot of things about a lot of things. To my surprise, I quickly figured out that to Mr. Cosgrove, a bream was about anything that looks like a bluegill, pumpkin seed, or any others of the sunfish family.
He liked using a cane pole and worms, while I preferred my ultralight spinning rod or a fly rod. We tossed our lines to the waiting fish and he quickly showed me exactly how old school can out-fish a college kid's "fancy fishing fluff." We did that about every other week for three summers. I heard a lot about being a cop during tough times and growing old on the outside while the inside never quite wanted to keep up. He explained the toughest part for him was losing his friends -- not many people care much for hearing long-winded stories from "codgers" like him.
I'd finished college and wasn't returning for a fourth year at Beaver Creek, having landed a full-time job with ODNR. I called the park's office that summer and got the word that the old man had passed.
You know, I never knew Mr. Cosgrove's first name. If he told me, I didn't commit it to memory. My upbringing directed me to call him mister and his upbringing expected it. In his own way, he forced me to see the real value of taking a break from work. He'd say, "There's more to life than pushing a plow" when discussing a time to go fishing. He also taught me that sometimes it's nice to be able to tell your story -- and about the value of someone willing to just listen.
We all need a Mr. Cosgrove in our lives. I've been lucky -- I've had several. He can come in any age or gender, can be someone you just met, a friend for years, or the next-door neighbor. One of them is waiting to tell you their story, to be your Mr. Cosgrove -- but maybe, someone's waiting for you to become theirs. Fishing provides a great backdrop for these conversations, so grab a fishing rod, there are plenty of bream waiting... but I'd suggest taking your own chair.
"Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after."